


The Lark's Song

by AmralimeOfGondolin



Series: The Elven Maiden of Gondolin [1]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesia, Ancestors, Beleriand, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Death, Declarations Of Love, Distinguishing Oneself, Dwarves In Exile, Dwarves in the Shire, Elf in Erebor, F/M, Fall of Gondolin, Falling In Love, Forging One's Own Path, Gen, Gondolin, Greenwood the Great, Halls of Mandos, King - Freeform, Lady - Freeform, Lindon (Tolkien), Lothlórien, Mirkwood, Multi, No Tauriel, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Original Character Death(s), Other, Past Character Death, Past Lives, Post-Quest of Erebor, Pre-Lord of The Rings, Pre-Quest of Erebor, Queen - Freeform, Quest of Erebor, Rivendell, Temporary Amnesia, Temporary Character Death, The Shire, The Valar, Unrequited Crush, Unrequited Love, Violence, Walking in Someone's Footsteps, War, Woodland Realm, important ancestors
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-23
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:13:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23794426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmralimeOfGondolin/pseuds/AmralimeOfGondolin
Summary: We have heard your song once before my dear, and a song so exquisite mustn't lay to waste. It should radiate through the halls of kings, the hearts of loved ones, echo in the souls enemies. And so, as our gift to you for our past failure, we accord you a new song. We could not give you back the life which you once loved, nor the memories that came it, as is the will of Eru Ilúvatar, but we have returned to you the spark of life that shall never be taken from you again. Thus, your song may go on, young one, in the great halls of Arda.
Relationships: Haldir of Lothlórien/Original Female Character(s), Thorin Oakenshield/Original Female Character(s), Thranduil (Tolkien)/Original Female Character(s)
Series: The Elven Maiden of Gondolin [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1714225
Comments: 4
Kudos: 36





	1. Blissful Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all,  
> Before you dive into this mad-passion work of mine, I wish to clarify a few things as to not waste your time:
> 
> 1\. If you did not read the tags, let it be known that this is partially a typical "girl from our world dropped into [insert fantasy realm here]" kind of Fanfiction. However, as the story goes, you will realise that there is more to it than a woman waking up in a fantasy realm she's always dreamt of being in. Because that's not what this story is;  
> 2\. As I am inserting a female elf character into The Hobbit timeline, I felt it necessary to remove Tauriel from my story. Since she is not originally from Canon and, as I said, I am adding my own female elf character, I did not want to have too many females where there are typically none. I apologise to all Tauriel fans out there. If you feel like she needs to be there, then I'll find a way to incorporate her;  
> 3\. This story incorporates elements of both Tolkien's books and Peter Jackson's movies, and this sometimes happens within the same scene. I've also made some fairly big changes to both and disregarded certain things that happen in either the books or the movies. This could be anything ranging from historical events in the books, character deaths in the movie or the creation of new famed and feared weapons. However, trust that I've done my research and nothing that I remove or add would impact the events of the Lord of the Rings 70+ years in the future.  
> 4\. As I have said, this is a mad passion of mine. I've wanted to make this Fanfiction for so long, that I am not going to be rushing it. I'm going to take my time, plan it all out detail by detail - so don't be surprised if this story doesn't update frequently. I just really want to make this right and do Tolkien, or my passion for Tolkien, justice.
> 
> Now, I'll stop rambling and let you get to reading,  
> Yours truly,  
> L

The entire city burned in a sea of red, yellow and orange. A young girl ambled across the streets in a daze, head ringing from the sounds of shattering stone. Her pale blue dress was ripped and stained with the ashes that fell from the sky like snow. Her hair, rippling gracefully in the wind only yesterday, was matted with the blood pouring from a wound on her head. She watched glistening shards of glass cascade from the burning buildings as flames licked the charred window frames. Then they ripped through the buildings surrounding her, tendrils of smoke reaching desperately into the sky as if trying to escape the blazing inferno below. 

There was a deafening roar. The thick reinforced walls of the city caved inwards, and shards of stone flew into the streets, burning everything they touched. They cut arms and seared the faces of the city people as they flew by, and the residual heat from the explosion began to blister the girl's skin. But that heat was only growing stronger.

From the earth-shattering rumbles came the screams and cries of her people, as a monstrous being emerged from the crumbled city walls. The acrid smell of burning coals reached deep in into the young girl's lungs before her eyes fell upon the beast. It was a menacing creature, twice the size of the tallest man she knew, seemingly consisting purely of shadow and flame. As it stepped onto the streets, the ground underneath her feet rumbled so violently that she fell like the tallest towers of the city, which crumbled away like dust. 

"Ffion! Ffion!"

Pale blue eyes snapped open and stared up at the plain white ceiling. Ffion's heart was pounding as if a hypodermic needle of adrenaline had emptied into her carotid artery. But her mind was clear and empty. Ffion's mother was hovering above her, clinging onto her daughter as if her life depended on it. She looked scared, terrified even, and Ffion knew that she'd had another night terror. Luckily for her, she never remembered much of it. Only the faint sensation of heat lingered on her skin, but when she put her fingers on her skin, it was cold as ice.

"Ffion, wake up!"  
"I'm okay, Mam," Ffion said faintly, her heart still pounding. Her mother didn't let go of her. Instead, she pulled her daughter into a tighter hug. "Mam, I'm fine."  
"I know, I know," her mother whispered.  
"I didn't hurt you, did I?"  
"No, no."

Ffion heaved a sigh. She was lucky. On bad days, her mother or father would get scratched up, trying to wrangle and calm their thrashing daughter. Sometimes, Ffion would run straight out of her bed, screaming. She'd fallen down the stairs and broke her arm once, and a collarbone a few years later. Her parents dreaded the day she broke something they couldn't fix.

Heaving a sigh, Ffion's mother squeezed her daughter one final time before leaving the room. Ffion watched her go and lay back onto the floor. She was at the end of her bed, legs still tangled up in her blankets. Ffion took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, running her hands over her face. Slowly, she slid the quilt aside and stood, not bothering to toss them back onto her bed. Ffion got dressed, pulling on a pair of jeans that she had to wrangle over her thighs, and expertly put on yesterday's bra without removing her shirt. She shrugged at her dark circles in the mirror and then hopped down the hall to put on her socks.

When she came downstairs, her mum was waiting with a plate of Welsh cakes and a cup of tea. Ffion grabbed one and shook off the excess cinnamon sugar; her mother always put too much.

"Currants or raisins?" she asked, examining the mystery fruit in her cakes.  
"Currants, of course," her mother replied. "You don't have to go to school today, you know."  
"You trying to turn me into a mitcher, Mam?"  
"'Course not. I'm just saying."  
"I've got a project due in two weeks, and I haven't even started it yet. To be honest, like, I should probably be at school early."

Ffion grabbed another cake from the counter, shook it, then threw on her coat and her backpack. Her mother looked at her, worried, but followed her daughter out the door without a word.

The countryside rolled past Ffion as her mother drove. Even under the grey skies, it stretched like a giant quilt of golden, brown and green squares held together by the thick green stitching of hedgerows. It rose and fell like giant waves on a gentle ocean and was dotted with animals. Occasionally there was a wood that separated the fields, or a farmhouse or barn. Beyond, mist rested softly on mountain peaks like a cloth draped over a pillow. 

A small smile grew at the corners of Ffion's mouth. Seeing the countryside always made her feel better, no matter how bad the dream was. It was peaceful, the complete opposite of what she'd gone through earlier, and Ffion hoped that these views were the precursor to a better day.

The streets of Aberystwyth were glorious in their conception. The walkways were smooth grey stones, joined with such precision that the joins were nearly invisible. The walls were concrete, but not like in a rural villa in Spain; they were colourful, shades of white and blue that echoed the crashing waves of the nearby ocean, and yellows that mirrored the sun. By the seafront was the old college, and a few streets in was the University, a world seemingly populated by groups of three or four teenagers milling about with rucksacks of all colours on their backs. At 21, Ffion felt old here.

"Thanks, Mam," Ffion said as her mother pulled up to the University. "I'll text you when my day's done."  
"You sure?"  
"Yeah. If I don't feel up to it, I'll just ask Dafydd to give me a lift home, okay?"  
"Okay, okay. Love you, Ffi."  
"Love you, too."

Ffion watched her mother drive off and then glanced at the horizon. Even under the grey clouds of Wales, the ocean managed to glitter like thousands of sapphires. She could hear the waves from where she stood, and their soothing sound gave her a little more confidence to bear with school for the day. For a moment, she regretted not taking up her mother's offer.

Dafydd was easy enough to spot once she got to class. He was the only blond in a sea of brunets, and it helped that he always saved the same spots. With a pen in hand and his books already open, Dafydd didn't notice Ffion sit next to him until she flicked him on the side of the head.

"Aigh'?"  
"Aigh'?"  
"Not gonna like to you, you look like a right mess," Dafydd said when he saw her face.  
"Thanks, butt," Ffion sighed. "Think maybe I should have put on some concealer or something. Might scare away the kids."  
"By kids, I hope you mean our lecturer."

* * *

Ffion was woken by a sharp jab in her side. Class had been dismissed, and Ffion had missed all of it. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes, and Dafydd gave her a sarcastic greeting as she became aware of her surroundings. Ffion chuckled and gave him a small punch to the shoulder, then packed up her things. The lecturer said nothing as they left, which meant he'd gotten too excited about economics again to even notice half his students were sleeping.

Laughter sounded along the halls, joined with excited conversations and shouts. Model worthy girls were perched on benches like exotic birds, gossiping and giggling. A rugby ball flew above Ffion and Dafydd's head, caught by one of the school team's players, and several other young dashed forward, overly excited about the simple catch. Groups of what looked like high schoolers wandered around, laughing and causing all sorts of problems, all except half a dozen of them that sat silently, staring at their laptop screens, massive headphones glued to their heads. A small breeze brushed past Ffion's ear; she followed it to find a blue paper aeroplane clumsily gliding through the air, before turning around and poking Dafydd in the forehead. He caught the plane and threw it behind him, aiming the people who'd tossed it in the first place.

"What a _twp_ ," Dafydd sighed, glancing back again.  
"Shut it, Dai," Ffion chuckled. "It was just a paper aeroplane."  
"D'you have any other classes today?"  
"We see each other every day, haven't you figured my schedule?"  
"Can't be bothered. I know you'll just tell me."

Ffion rolled her eyes.

"No, I don't. Did you have plans?"  
"I was going to hit Ship & Castle with Lewis and Osian. Fancy a pint?"  
"Ah, no, I'm fine," Ffion said, shaking her head. "I think I'll just text my Mam and call it a day."  
"Okay. I can give you a lift home if you want. I'm not meeting the lads for a bit."  
"Yeah?"  
"'Course."

Ffion loved Dafydd's car. She'd come to think of it as being part of the landscape. It belonged on the streets of Wales as much as the trees and the sheep. The old rabbit's engine sputtered when Dafydd turned the key, as usual, and it took forever for Ffion to get the window down. But as the car engine sung to the deserted country roads, Ffion relished the brisk, roaring winds that twirled in her long black hair, and secretly dreaded the day that the old rabbit died.

She thanked Dafydd for the ride as he pulled into her driveway and gave him a short wave as he drove off again. Ffion's mother was waiting for her at the kitchen table, her laptop and papers sprawled about the table as usual. They gave each other a short greet, and Ffion went up to her room to change. She came back down in old sweat pants and a shirt full of grease spots, hair tied up haphazardly to keep it out of her face. 

"Is Dad in the garage, Mam?"  
"Should be. Grab yourself something to eat before you go out."

Ffion grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl on the counter and then went to the back. Ffion's father had converted the garage into a small home business, and it was from there that he made the most spectacular jewellery. He had a small forge in one corner, a grinding and sanding station in the other, and hundreds of feet of ventilation tubes connecting them both to the outside. Ffion's dad was sitting at his workbench, hunched over a small glinting piece of silver in the low lamplight.

"Alrigh', Ffi?" he said without moving.  
"Alrigh', Dad?" Ffion said back. "You still working on Ms Rhys' ring?"  
"Aye. We got another order in, too. Can you start on it? Should be on me desk."

Ffion nodded to herself and took a bite of her apple. She sorted through her father's desk beside the garage's entrance until she found the cleanest piece of paper there. 

"Simple band. Small adornment. Stone of choice," Ffion read aloud. "Who's it for?"  
"Don't know. Your Mam got the order from a friend."  
"Lends to a lot of creativity."

Ffion shrugged and quickly finished her apple, then got to work. She pulled two small pieces of recycled silver from her father's collection of materials and went to her own workbench. Ffion had been helping her father make rings for the past five years, and it was for this reason that she was studying business. When she finally graduated and got her degree, she wanted to help her dad expand his business and make jewellery with him full-time.

Ffion pulled out a torch and began annealing one of the small bars of silver. Once it was annealed, Ffion grabbed it with tongs and brought it to the bending machine and shaped it into a circle. Then she placed the ring onto the tip of an anvil and hit it until the ends came close together. Ffion went over to her father's workbench and used his fine jeweller's saw to cut off the excess, and then she went back to the anvil to close the ring as much as possible.

"What'd you pick?" Ffion's dad asked, coming to stare at her work over her shoulder.  
"Silver," Ffion said. "I think I'm going to do a couple of twists, and then maybe one of the blue gems. Have you gotten any aquamarines, recently?"  
"No. But I've got topaz."  
"Oh, that'll do."

Ffion's father gave her a gentle squeeze of the shoulder, then left the garage, presumably to help her mother with supper. Meanwhile, Ffion filled the gap with a sliver of silver, soldered it and covered in flux paste. She headed over to the forge and turned it on, adjusting the knobs to get it to the right temperature, and then heated the ring until it was glowing bright and evenly. Ffion quickly removed it from the forge and quenched it, then dropped into the heated pickle to dissolve the flux. 

While the flux dissolved, Ffion searched her father's box of gems and found a lovely squared blue topaz. After placing it onto her workbench, she grabbed the ring from the pickle and dropped it onto a mandrel, checking to see if it has the right size. Then, the long part started. Ffion sat down at her workbench and pulled out a file. She clamped the ring down and began meticulously filing down the edges to round out the ring. She'd only stopped when her father came to get her for dinner. 

"Ffion go shower before dinner," her mother said as she came inside and began serving herself.  
"There's no point, Mam, I'm going back to the garage after."  
"Come on, Ffion, you've been in there for hours already. You need to sleep."  
"No, I don't," Ffion argued. "I don't want to have another terror two days in a row. I'll just take my dinner out."

She grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and then her plate, and went back outside to the garage, unnecessarily annoyed. She ate quickly, downed half her bottle of water, and then went back to work. 

She used the fine jeweller's saw to cut a few slivers of metal, which she heated and connected at the base, and then to the ring, to create some sort of conglomeration of silver branches. She heated the silver branches again and twisted them until they whimsically took the shape of the stone she'd set in there. Again, she spent the next few hours filing down everything until it was smooth. By then, it was dark, her parents had gone to bed, and the only light that was shining was the one on her workbench. 

Ffion gently placed the stone into the silver branches and positioned it just right so that when she bent the branched to hold the gem, it clamped it down permanently. She grabbed a small hammer and gently tapped on the edges of the branches. Ffion filed down all the rough edges and then buffed the ring with a few different abrasives until it began sparkling. Finally, when the sun was starting to rise again, Ffion washed the ring and polished it with a clean piece of leather until the newly created ring sparkled in the low light. 

Ffion sat back in her chair and stared at the ring she'd just completed. It was quite beautiful for something she'd made in only twelve hours, and she was sure that whomever this was for, that they'd love it. Ffion tagged it and put it on her father's workbench, then locked up the garage before heading inside. She took a long shower, hoping to postpone sleep as much as possible, but when her mother knocked asking for her to hurry, she knew she couldn't avoid it for much longer.

When Ffion left the bathroom, her mother said something about going out, but the girl barely heard her mother before she shut her bedroom door behind her. After changing into her pyjamas, Ffion laid in bed, staring at the ceiling. All the reasons not to sleep came flooding in as if her body was already anticipating another night terror. She could feel the soft panic that could grow even more depending on what she did next. It would fade if she fell asleep, but then she'd have to run the risk of putting herself through another night terror. Then again, she could also just have a good night's sleep. Heaving a sigh, Ffion decided to risk sleep. Her eyes were hurting, her arms were sore from hammering metal all night, and the heat of the forge had taken a lot more energy out of her than she'd thought. Before long, Ffion was drifting off into sleep.

The entire city burned in a sea of red, yellow and orange. A young girl ambled across the streets in a daze, head ringing from the sounds of shattering stone. Her pale blue dress was ripped and stained with the ashes that fell from the sky like snow. Her hair, rippling gracefully in the wind only yesterday, was matted with the blood pouring from a wound on her head. She watched glistening shards of glass cascade from the burning buildings as flames licked the charred window frames. Then they ripped through the buildings surrounding her, tendrils of smoke reaching desperately into the sky as if trying to escape the blazing inferno below. 

There was a deafening roar. The thick reinforced walls of the city caved inwards, and shards of stone flew into the streets, burning everything they touched. They cut arms and seared the faces of the city people as they flew by, and the residual heat from the explosion began to blister the girl's skin. But that heat was only growing stronger.

From the earth-shattering rumbles came the screams and cries of her people, as a monstrous being emerged from the crumbled city walls. The acrid smell of burning coals reached deep in into the young girl's lungs before her eyes fell upon the beast. It was a menacing creature, twice the size of the tallest man she knew, seemingly consisting purely of shadow and flame. As it stepped onto the streets, the ground underneath her feet rumbled so violently that she fell like the tallest towers of the city, which crumbled away like dust.

A sharp pain went up through her leg, and the girl knew that that was it. She tried to back away, but the debris from the crumbled walls was stopping her. She tried to push some out of the way, but the beast roared and, frozen in fear, the girl stopped moving. From the shadow that surrounded it, the creature pulled out an immense many-thronged whip. It crackled and sparked like flame, and even from a distance, the girl could feel its heat. As it got closer, her mouth began to dry up, as did her eyes, and when it was merely feet away, her skin started to bubble and blister. The pain grew and grew as the fiery beast cracked his whip until it became merciless without escape. For a moment, the girl felt too weak to continue. Her head lolled, and her eyelids were getting heavy, and it was in that moment that the beast roared one last time, and the fires claimed the young, defenceless girl.


	2. The Great Halls

Out of complete silence, a woman's cry arose. And out of complete reverence, the things of the world stilled to listen. The wind stopped blowing. The birds stopped singing. Even the trees stopped creaking to listen. Like a budding flower, it started, slow and gentle, but it rose to a wail that tore at Ffion's heart. Tens of thousands of voices mingled together, crying out in total sorrow alongside the woman. To the ends of the world, the cry travelled, or so it seemed, as even in the familiar darkness that pressed in on Ffion, she could hear it. If there had been land and sea, forests and valleys in this blackness, the cry would have travelled through them. To the ends of the world, the cry would have gone, and into the darkness of passing it would too. 

Every ear in the universe and the worlds beyond stilled to listen. Every heart broke. So heavy, so miserable was their song. When it hit Ffion's ears, a weight of sorrow pressed her further into the darkness that was claiming her. Her mind clouded with pain, her heart grew cold and numb, and while there was heat somewhere in this darkness, Ffion felt as cold as ice. She felt clogged with pain, with anger, hurt and fear. All she could do was join the cry. So she let out a long and mournful yell to the darkness around her. In her heart of hearts, Ffion longed for the cry to reach the woman, anyone at all, even the God she didn't believe in.

And it did. As the cry echoed in the darkness that surrounded Ffion, she felt herself moving. She didn't know whether she was standing anymore, or lying down, for all she could feel was the sudden lightness of her body. She was being pulled someplace. Even with the absence of wind or air or any sort of friction, Ffion knew she was heading somewhere. For the more she felt light, the more the darkness began to brighten. It turned into deep indigos that faded into pinks, purples and blues. Sparkling orbs of light zoomed past Ffion as she was pulled through bright and colourful clouds of twinkling dust. She could feel the energy radiating off of them, and while it was intense, Ffion's body embraced it as if she'd been meant to absorb the power of these stars. She could feel the pulse of energy going through her veins every time she floated through a dust cloud or near flaming stars. Ffion had never felt so warm. So safe. Far away did the devastating cries seem to her now. Nearly forgotten, but not quite, as the cries of thousands and thousands of beings soon came back to her. But this time, they mingled together like a choir, sounding so desperately beautiful to Ffion's ears. 

And then the choir-like cries that were so loud in her ears began to die down to barely a whisper. As the choir's sound began to dim, so did the brightness of the stars, until they were distant like the stars one saw in the night sky. Then, for the first time in what seemed like a lifetime, Ffion felt a solid object underneath her feet. Looking down to her feet, she saw a floor made of solid black that glimmered like polished stone. She slowly returned her gaze upwards, and as her eyes wandered over her surroundings, things began to take shape and form. There were pillars as high as the tallest buildings, made of the finest black stone. There were no walls that Ffion could see, but there were openings that resembled windows, and they looked out into what seemed like millions of twinkling stars. When Ffion took a step forward, the dark floors seemed to form as she went. Curious, Ffion walked for a long time, relishing the sensation of solid floors beneath her. Still, she couldn't feel her arms, nor her hair or even hear her own breathing. There was nothing but her feet and the floor, and they carried her to a place that had walls. They too, were made of black stone, and they were adorned with carvings so intricate that Ffion could never have imagined. There were sculptures made of the finest metals, and instruments on display that the girl couldn't even begin to guess as to their use.

A quiet whisper roused Ffion from her aimless wandering, and with sudden-found purpose, she began to walk again. She followed the whisper as it grew louder and louder until she came to the widest hall she'd seen yet. It was empty and quiet, the sounds of her footsteps too little to be given a chance to be heard. At the end of the hall stood a great big throne made of the same stone Ffion was walking on. And while no one sat in it and no one but herself could be seen or heard, Ffion felt the need to kneel before the deserted throne. 

"You are familiar."

The voice was loud, solemn and terrible, and it spoke in a language that Ffion did not know. However, the girl understood every word, and in response to the voice's declaration, she lifted her head up to the throne. There sat a figure clothed in darkness, face veiled by shadow and the hood that he donned.

"I never forget a face," he continued. "And while yours is a face I have not seen for many a time, it is a face that I still know."  
"I've been here before?" Ffion asked.

The hooded figure leaned forward in the slightest.

"You speak the Common Tongue."

It was more of a question than a statement, and it confused Ffion.

"Of course, I do," she said quietly. "Everyone speaks English in Wales."

The figure leaned back again. While she could not see his face, Ffion couldn't help but feel that he too was just as confused as she was. He said nothing for a while, simply staring, and when someone else entered the great hall, he turned to look. Ffion could have sworn she saw the faint glimmer of his eyes in the low light. 

"Is this your doing, Nienna?" the figure spoke.

Out from the shadow came a fair woman, with hair as pale as silver and skin just as flawless. As she walked, the grey cloak she donned fluttered around her ankles, but no sound came from her footsteps.

"I am afraid that it is, Námo," the woman spoke in the same tongue.

Unlike Námo, Nienna's voice was soft and sad. She stood next to Námo's throne and gazed at Ffion, who couldn't help but stare back.

"I'm sorry, but I don't know either of you," Ffion said. "How is it that you know who I am?"

Nienna looked down sadly and calmly approached Ffion. She gently brought the girl to a stand, lifting her by the elbows. Ffion was nowhere near as tall as Nienna, and she wondered how she could be this short compared to another woman, as she was already taller than most girls in her classes. Nienna brushed Ffion's hair back, and she was surprised to find that her ears felt longer than they usually were. When Nienna's hand fell back to her side, Ffion rose hers to her ears and felt their pointed tips.

Suddenly, as the confusion anatomy changes were being presented to her, Ffion's mind came alight with familiar visions of fire and destruction. She could hear the explosions, the screams and the shattering of glass. She could feel her skin bubbling, the heat burning her lungs, and the pain shooting through her legs. She could see walls crumbling to dust, men and women falling to their deaths, a giant creature made purely of shadow and flame.

The thoughts accelerated inside her head, and Ffion wanted nothing more than for them to stop. She couldn't breathe, but the images wouldn't stop flooding her mind. Finally, she could hear herself breathing, but her breaths came in gasps, and she felt as if she would return to the darkness from whence she came. She could hear the beating of her own heart again, but it was hammering inside her chest as if it belonged to a hare running for its own skin. The room began to spin, and Ffion sat down, attempting to make everything slow down to something her brain could cope with. Never in her life had she seen something so horrific. No wonder these were the things she saw during her night terrors. Ffion felt sick to her stomach.

"Now you remember," Nienna said calmly.  
"Remember?" Ffion said between breaths. "This is just a dream - a nightmare I have all the time."  
"Dreams are but a window into the soul, a gateway into the deepest and darkest corners of ourselves."  
"What's that supposed to mean?"  
"This dream of yours is a memory," Námo said plainly.

Ffion couldn't help but let out a dry and humourless laugh. 

"Then what's this then? Is this a memory too, or am I dreaming?" she said, somewhat annoyed. "I don't know either of you, I don't know what this place is."  
"This is death."

Words left Ffion. She couldn't even laugh this time, either. Námo had said this with such a stern and dispassionate tone that it made it hard for her to think it was just a sick joke. Even upon looking at Nienna, Ffion could tell that Námo's comment was meant to be serious. The woman's sorrowful face had seemed to sadden even more.

"You're lying."

This comment did not please Námo at all. Thundering clouds appeared above him inside the hall, and the winds picked up so harshly that Ffion was nearly knocked over. It was Nienna who calmed him, and once again stepped forward to explain.

"Can you recall any memories of your lifetime?"

Ffion didn't have to think hard. She could easily picture her mother, her father. She could remember Dafydd and the stupid rumbling of his old rabbit. Ffion remembered the feeling of forging rings, the sensation of cold showers, the broken bones she'd sustained after a few of her night terrors.

"We are the ones responsible for this life that you've led."  
"What, so you're God?" Ffion said sarcastically. She stood back up at stared between Nienna and Námo. "You're out of luck. I don't believe in God."  
"We are not the Gods that your world speaks of," Nienna said. "We are of the Ainur, beings that helped shape the world that you once lived in."

Ffion narrowed her eyes at Nienna. 

"You seem uncertain."  
"'Course I am," Ffion said shortly. "I've never once believed in gods, nor have I ever heard of a God claiming to be part of a race. Aren't gods just supposed to be gods?  
"Apart from that, you're expecting me to believe that I'm dead. I don't know how you expect anyone to take well to that."

The ghost of a smile reached Nienna's mouth, and Námo reclined in his throne. Both of them seemed entertained, or at least somewhat amused by Ffion's behaviour. She thought it was typical of gods to laugh at mortals, but was nonetheless irked. 

"The nightmares, as you claim them to be, are memories of a life that was taken from you far too early," Nienna said. "They are a lingering residue of something that Námo did many an age ago."

Ffion's brow frowned again.

"I'm twenty-one years old," she said flatly. "You know that, right?"

Námo turned to Nienna. And though Ffion couldn't see his face, she could tell that he had not expected her to be so young. This was, of course, strange to Ffion, who could not understand why these... people, thought that she should have been ages old.

Nienna turned to Námo, and they whispered things to each other that Fion wished she could hear. But from this distance, and limited by the strange physics of this place, all she could hear was the sound of her breathing. 

"You've returned to us far younger than we had anticipated," Námo said sternly. "I had hoped that you'd live a far more accomplished life than you previously had."

Námo stood from his throne and pulled down his hood. He was a fair man with delicate features, but they were stern and cold, and his eyes and hair were as dark as the stone beneath his feet. With a barely discernable nod, he asked for Ffion to follow him. She did so without question, as it seemed the appropriate thing to do, and she followed Námo and Nienna until they reached a window far greater than those in the hall. Outside Ffion could see a land of unimaginable beauty, filled with green fields and oceans of the most vibrant blues. 

"Quite a few of your people live on these shores."  
"My people? You mean humans?"  
"No. Man has never stepped foot on these shores. I am speaking, of course, of the Eldar."  
"Eldar?"

Námo sighed.

"In the Common Tongue, one would call them Elves."  
"You can't be serious," Ffion muttered under her breath.   
"When the Eldar awoke after their creation, some of them travelled to these shores. Others chose to remain in the place where they awoke. We call this Arda, or Middle-Earth if you will.  
"Your branch of the Eldar chose to remain Arda, and they built great cities, created many beautiful jewels and crafted many splendid weapons.  
"The city you were born in was named Gondolin."

Ffion looked up at Námo. There wasn't a hint of malice behind his words, and his eyes showed no lies. It wasn't reassuring, however. If anything, it was disconcerting. As somehow, deep inside her, Ffion seemed to know what he was talking about, and it terrified her.

"The memory you have retained is the memory of Gondolin on the day of its destruction."

The screams echoed in Ffion's mind again.

"You were barely a single year old when the city fell," Nienna continued sadly. She took a step forward and placed a gentle hand on Ffion's shoulder.   
"When the Eldar die, their spirit passes into these halls, and it lingers here until they are ready or worthy to return to physical form. For you, it was different. A soul does not age in these halls, and you hadn't lived long enough to be worthy to return to Arda.  
"After quite a bit on convincing, Námo ensured that your soul would be given another chance to live. When the time came, and you would die naturally, you would return to these halls, fulfilled, and returned to Arda to continue your life as it should have."  
"But it did not work as we had hoped," Námo said flatly. "You are far younger than we had hoped, still an Eldarian child."

Ffion couldn't quite believe her ears, and her mind was caught somewhere between the urge to cry and the urge to laugh. Her mind was reeling, unable to comprehend or process any of the words that had been spoken. She looked away and back outside, to the green fields and pure white buildings that somehow felt so familiar. And the more she looked at them, the more they were. 

There was nothing logical about this, nothing to ground her, no proof that whatever Námo and Nienna were saying was the truth. Looking back into their eyes, Ffion couldn't help but want to believe them. But then, what was to be said about her parents?

"Then... my name. It isn't Ffion, is it?" the girl muttered. "And the parents that I've lived with for the past twenty-one years - the ones that fed me, clothed me, loved me and took care of me... they were all just some game for passing the time, is that it?"  
"It is unfortunate that you remember them," Námo said bluntly. "Your spirit was meant to return only with the experience of your body."  
"So, send me back."

Námo and Nienna both stared at her.

"We cannot do that," Nienna said.  
"Well, why not!?" Ffion shouted. "You sent me there, you can send me back!"  
"The world from which you came follows the same life and death laws as the Men of Arda. We cannot send you back, for there is nothing to return you to. You cannot be re-embodied there."  
"So, you're just going to let my soul rot in these halls for all eternity!?"  
"As you do not have the experience, the honour, nor spent time reflecting--"  
"You underestimate me, Námo!" Ffion shouted. "I have spent my entire twenty-one years of life plagued by nightmares that you gave me. I spent most of my nights in reflection, trying to think about what they mean, why it is that I am forced to relive them nearly every single night.  
"I have spent more than half of my life going to school, learning about the ways of the world and acquiring knowledge beyond most people my age. I pushed everything that I've ever wanted in my life so that I could help my family - my father. I went to get higher education to be able to help expand his business, help him do what he's always dreamed of doing.   
"I have sacrificed friendships, my dreams and my desires for the sake of my family, and I would do it again in a heartbeat.  
"So, don't you tell me Námo of the Ainur that I lack life experience. That I have not spent enough of my life in quiet contemplation. Because it is all that I've ever done. And even now, standing right here in who-knows-where while I am supposedly dead, I have more honour and respect for my life and my family than you have in your entire body."

Námo was quiet. He stared at the gleam in Ffion's blue eyes and the stern expression on her face. Her entire body was shaking with fury. And while he'd usually banish one's soul for speaking to him in such a tone, Námo was moderately impressed with the nerve and determination that shone in the girl's eyes.

"On any other occasion, I'd send your soul to rot in my halls for all eternity," Námo said finally. "It is not wise to offend one of the Ainur."

Ffion didn't budge. She stared straight up into Námo's dark eyes.

"But as it was our wrongdoings that have brought you to this, I will let it slide."

Námo and Nienna shared a look.

"As promised to you many an age ago, we will return you to Arda as you are now, so that you may live your life as it was originally intended," Nienna said. "We welcome you back to Arda, Ir--"  
"Stop," Ffion interrupted her. "I don't want to know. I don't want to know anything."

Nienna and Námo frowned.

"I don't want to remember my life."  
"You are aware that we cannot let you return to Middle-Earth with your memories of the other world intact."  
"I figured," Ffion said shortly. "But since you're robbing me of my identity, I request permission to forge myself a new one. I don't want to be bound by a life I lived for only a year."

Námo and Nienna said nothing for a while until Námo took a few steps forward. He placed a gentle hand on Ffion's head, and in a warm rush of air, everything faded to white.


	3. Absence

It was the sharp cold that woke the girl. As her eyelids snapped open, her limbs flexed in shock. There was murky water as far as the eye could see, and the woman was submerged in it, her body slowly suffering from its cold temperature. Instinctively, the woman gasped for air, but all that entered her lungs was the icy water that she was submerged in. Dread soon began to fill her mind. She didn't know which way was up, or which way was down. Red and black patches danced in front of her eyes, taunting her, and she couldn't even recall whether her eyes were open or shut tight. The woman tried to hold her breath, kicking her legs to swim to the surface, but there was no light anywhere, no indication as to where she had to swim. Soon, the icy water was gone and wash of warm water filled her body, warming even her frosted toes. Her heart began to beat rapidly, and she coughed, lungs gasping for air once again. Water filled her lungs and the need for air was more apparent than ever. There were no more red and black patches blurring her vision—everything was black.

However, when she became as sure of her death as the rising and falling of the sun and moon, a loud splashing sound resonated to her ears. It got closer and closer the more time passed, and just before her consciousness turned to black, a hand firmly grasped her arm. The girl felt herself be dragged through the water and then her lungs gasped for the air she desperately needed. Water came spilling out of her mouth as she sputtered and coughed, and she did this for a while until her breathing and heartbeat became normal once again.

It was the feeling of raindrops against her skin that made her open her eyes again. She was met with a great, velvety expanse of indigo. The moon hung full and hazy beneath a blanket of blazing stars, allowing her to see the canopies of trees nearby. But the rainfall had soon gotten heavy for the woman's eyelids that she closed her pale blue eyes, a rattled sigh passing through her parted lips as she did so, the breath turning to fog. It obscured her vision for a moment, but she closed her eyes once more, taking in the feeling of her wet, bruised skin.

The woman awoke to the gentle sound of wind blowing through trees. It brought a calmness to the mind, a soothing melody that she needed after what she'd survived the day prior. But just as she recalled everything, the feeling of icy water crawled onto her skin once again. It started at her toes and swiftly made its way to her heart. Panicked and in pain, the woman rose from her pristine white sheets and ran towards the window. While her breath was short and heavy, a deep sense of serenity overcame her as she stared through the curtains of her dark hair and at the wide expanse of blue that lay before her. Rays of light danced delicately across the water, birthed from the morning sun that made the view all the more beautiful.

"You are awake."

As the woman turned to look at the person who had spoken, she rose her head, and while the man had seen her face as he carried her from the shore the night prior, he saw before him a lady fair to look upon. She was young, and yet not so, and she stared at him with an air of curiosity one finds in a child. And although her skin and hair were covered still in the murkiness of the lake beyond, they were flawless and smooth, and the light of twinkling stars was in her eyes, blue as the bright sky.

At once he recognised the eyes of a King that had lived so very long ago. While they had not known each other personally, there was no mistaking the daring blue eyes of Finwë that gleamed in this girl. And though she did not share any more of Finwë's traits, the man was stricken by how much this woman looked like Finwë's daughter, Írimë, an Eldar he had once known.

A soft quizzical look reached the woman's features, and she took a step forward towards the silver-haired man that was contemplating her. He seemed familiar to her, not that she'd ever seen such a keen-eyed Eldar, but it seemed to her that she'd heard of this man in song or in story.

"Pardon me," the woman said gently. "But I am nearly certain that I know you."  
"I can assure you, my lady, that you and I have never met," the man said sincerely. "But there are song and story a plenty written about my life, and therefore it is not impossible for you to know me. I am Círdan, Master of the Grey Havens. Or perhaps you know me by a different name?"  
"I do," the woman said after a moment. "I have heard your name, but I have heard Círdan in conversation alone. In story and in song, you are known to me as Nowë."

For a moment, Círdan looked taken aback. Nowë was a name that none has used since the Year of the Trees, a name that died with all the descendants of first Ñoldor that remained in Middle-Earth—it was a name uttered millennia in the past. For it to have survived in the mind of an Eldar this young was impossible.

"That is a name that I have not heard for many an age," Círdan said solemnly. "To think that this is the name you know me by first..."  
"I do not understand."  
"The last to have called me Nowë was of my kin—Elu Thingol, the last King of Doriath."  
"I still do not understand," the woman insisted. "Doriath fell not five years ago. How is it possible for it to have been more?"

Círdan's frown deepened. It was clear to him that Doriath had not fallen a mere five years ago, for he had lived since the Year of the Trees and through three modern ages. Surely, the problem lay with the woman standing before her. 

"I am sure—as sure as the tide—that I know who you are," Círdan said at last. "I know not how it is possible, but I am certain of it."  
"I am sure, Nowë, that your answer as to my identity is far greater than mine," the woman said contemplatively. "For the longer I search inside my memories, the more I am stricken by their absence. Whatever answer you may give me, I cannot confirm it, for I have no recollection as to who it is that I am."

The wind had picked up again and the woman, lulled by its sound, calmly walked towards the window and unlatched it. Her hair was picked up by the breeze, and it swayed like tendrils of dark, thick smoke around her head. In the sunlight, her eyes seemed to shine even brighter than those of Finwë and Írimë.

"Whether there is proof or not of my words, I can see it with my own eyes," Círdan said, approaching the woman. "Your eyes are as blue as the open sea and they shine brighter than any star in the sky. They are the eyes of a King, of numerous Kings, the last of which ruled over Gondolin."  
"You speak as if it has fallen."  
"It has, my lady."

The scent of pine ceased when the woman's breath hitched in her throat. Her eyes roamed over the still lake and rich green bushes for a moment, mulling over the words that Nowë—Círdan—had spoken. Just like her own name, the memory of Gondolin's fall was nowhere to be found within the depths of her mind. She remained silent for quite some time, thinking, searching her mind for anything resembling memories of Gondolin, herself—even the memory of her parents was absent. The woman felt quite alone all of a sudden, and she turned to the only remaining person she knew.

"You are all that I know, Nowë," the woman murmured. "I know nothing of myself, nothing of Gondolin's fate, nor anything of my family. Tell me, Nowë, if what you say is true, and Gondolin has fallen, do any of my kin remain?"  
"Those who survived the fall were few, my lady," Círdan said solemnly. "It was one of the Gondolindrim that sealed the city's fate. Maeglin, from the House of Fingolfin, betrayed the King by revealing to the Dark Lord Morgoth the location of the Hidden City. He sent armies of Orcs, Dragons and Balrogs, and although the defenders of the city fought to the best of their capabilities, Gondolin was sacked. Fires claimed the city. The walls crumbled. Smoke could be seen as far as the Havens in which we stand. All were slaughtered without mercy, and it was said that no one remaining inside the city had survived—until now."

The woman looked up at Círdan. The stars the gleamed in her eyes mere minutes ago had all vanished, and the bright blue of her irises had become grey and dull. She leaned back against the high window sill and let her arms fall limp to her sides. 

"When did this all happen?" the woman asked meekly. "How much of my memories have left me?"  
"My lady... Gondolin fell over six thousand years ago."

The woman's legs gave out and she fell to her knees, weak and breathless.

"Then I am the last—the last of Gondolin?"  
"The last of Beleriand."

The woman's dull gaze found Círdan.

"The vast region of Beleriand was sunk at the end of the First Age during the War of Wrath. All that remains is Lindon and the Havens."

Learning of the destruction of Gondolin and Beleriand, although it was profoundly sad, did not hit the woman as harshly as one would expect. The woman mourned for the people—the family—she did not recall, but there was an odd disconnect between herself and these people. Sadness she felt, but pain she did not.

"In a way," the woman began," I am grateful that I do not have these memories. I do not think that I could bear so much pain and suffering inside of me."  
"Your family—"  
"It is as if I do not know them. You may tell me their names, but I cannot associate a face to them. You may tell me that I am the daughter of someone you once knew, but I cannot recall the sound of their voice as they called my name—a name that I do not remember.  
"They are six thousand years in the past, Nowë. Am I to recall their names and faces simply to suffer?"  
"Do you not wish to know your name?"

Círdan and the woman gazed at each other for a moment.

"No. I do not think that I do."

Something awoke deep inside of the woman. It was bold, brave, and determined. She did not know from where it came, of whose member of her family this trait belonged to, but it bubbled warm inside of her, and it distracted her from the icy feeling of the water that she felt deep within her bones.

"I would like to think that these memories are absent for a reason, Nowë," the woman said contemplatively. "If the Valar wished for my memories to be intact, do you not think that they would be? Who am I to go against the will of the Aratar?  
"No... They have granted me a new life, Nowë, I am certain of it—as certain as the stars—and I will not dishonour them by asking for a name that they did not wish to give me or search for memories that I am not meant to have. I will create new memories, Nowë, and I will forge a name for myself... as is the will of Eru Illúvatar."


	4. Lindërúlin

The streets of Gondolin had been paved with stone and wide, kerbed marble. Fair houses and courts amid gardens of bright flowers were set about the ways, and many towers of great slenderness and beauty built of white marble and carved most marvellously rose up to the heavens. Squares there were, with fountains and the homes of birds that sang amid the branches of aged trees, but of all these, the most incredible place was the place where stood the King's palace. The tower was the loftiest in the city, and the fountains that played before the doors shot twenty fathoms and seven in the air and fell in a singing rain of crystal; there the sun would glitter splendidly by day, and the moon most magically shimmered by night. The birds that dwelt there were of the whiteness of snow and their voices sweeter than a lullaby of music, but the woman could barely recall any of it.

The woman knew the Grey Havens, made with the same stone that her fallen city had been made from, but the marble was pitted and scarred, greyed by the passage of time and the fires of the creatures that took Gondolin down. In this hallowed and ancient site, the trees had seen centuries blow past in the winds of each age and witnessed the folly of birds attempting to land on the mirror-like water. The walls stood mute, greyed stone rising from the Gulf, unapologetic and bold, much like the woman Círdan had pulled from the water many months ago, and at their feet, arrowheads of old, hilts of broken swords that failed and succeeded to protect. Beneath the chorus of the birds, Círdan could hear the voices of old, and in the pale light of the morning, were it not for the tell-tale signs of weathering, the Grey Havens were timeless, a place of assembly and trade, for no matter the historical importance of Mithlond, the port had a sparse population—only a few Eldar remained. Still, many Men and Dwarves passed, staying for days, weeks, sometimes many months, and it was with them that the woman found herself most fascinated.

She found them odd, in a way, not so different from herself, but different enough that Círdan reprimanded her for acting like them. She was fascinated by the languages they spoke, and she listened to everything she could, absorbing their words like cotton absorbed blood, until she felt brave enough to engage them in conversation. And the Men were especially enthusiastic about an elven maiden trying to learn their language, their colloquialisms and the parlances that distinguished each tribe of Men. The Dwarves were hesitant, refusing to let the elf know any of their preciously guarded language, but the woman listened when they thought they were alone, to the harsh sounds of what books called Khuzdul. 

And Círdan scolded her for listening in, for mingling with Man and Dwarf, as it became clear to him that the woman was becoming far less interested in herself. Her memories had not yet returned, and being wary of coaxing them out of the depths of her soul made a perfect excuse to explain her fascination with these strange peoples. She devoured their words, their stories, and especially their songs, until the woman began to resent every instance Círdan mentioned her ancestors. She didn't feel connected to them, but rather to the songs of Men and the stories the Dwarves. Evenings were spent in their company, learning to play their music, learning to sing in their tongues, until Círdan could barely recognise the elven woman that came home every night.

Her walk was confident, and no longer did she wear the feminine garments that Círdan had provided for her. She strode about the Havens, graceful and bold, wearing nothing but trousers and men's old undershirts she'd tailored to her size. The woman had cut her hair up to the middle of her back, and none of it was braided save for a large plait at the side of her head, adorned by golden beads gifted to her by an elderly dwarf. She spoke to herself in many languages, sang in far more, and while Círdan had continuously reprimanded the woman for behaving like Men, he could not deny that her smile had never been more radiant than it was now. Still, Círdan felt as if he were the guardian of a young child, continually following the elven maiden around to make sure she wouldn't make a fool of herself. But he was amazed by her nonetheless, impressed by her capacity for learning, her curiosity, her love of life, the way she danced so gracefully the dances of Men they danced so clumsily.

The one thing that he had never reprimanded her for was her love for the forest. Círdan knew that if the woman could choose the one place she'd spend the rest of her days she'd choose any forest she could run through. Every morning, the woman ran off, barefoot and in nothing but a thin linen nightgown, devouring the woods with her eyes as she sprinted through the trees. The smell of pine, cedar and moss that kicked up every time she took a step forward filled her nose, making goosebumps run all along her skin. And she'd return hours later, far past sunrise, covered in muck with leaves in her hair, singing one of the foreign tunes she'd learned from Men. The songs were irresistibly sweet—at least when the woman sang them—and yet there was a sadness to them, grief laced into every word.

Today was no different. The trees were veiled in the lightest of mists, their trunks sombre brown with sable cracks that gnarled the bark. As the woman's eyes travelled to the edge of the woodland, they became silhouettes against a blanket of white, as if it were only daylight where she stood, as if she was encircled by twilight. In this nature's hug of ever-open arms of brown, safe beneath the canopy of greens, there was a welcoming spirit that called, as if there was something in her that the trees could feel, or the spirit of Vána the Ever-Young that the woman could hear. There was a softness to the voice, so very pure it was, and it filled the wood with a melody that even the birds could not compare to. It sang to the woman, bringing serenity to her soul, and upon leaving the woodland, feet slipping against the dewy moss ground, she finished the song that the spirits had sung for her.

> _When the valley was unknown,_  
>  _And the waters roared alone,_  
>  _And the shadow-folk danced downward all the night,_  
>  _When the Sun had fared abroad_  
>  _Through great forests unexplored_  
>  _And the woods were the full of wandering beams of light._  
>    
>  _Then were voices on the fells_  
>  _And the sound of ghostly bells_  
>  _And a march of shadow-people o'er the height._  
>  _In the mountains by the shore_  
>  _In forgotten Aryador_  
>  _There was dancing and was ringing;_  
>  _There were shadow-people singing_  
>  _Ancient songs of olden gods in Aryador._

"Once again, I hear only the ending of your song," Círdan noted as the woman walked up the stairs to the Havens. The hem of her linen dress was as dark as the earth between her toes, her hair dishevelled, and yet, somehow, she still appeared as beautiful as she always was. "Could you not sing them once you have returned from your excursions?"  
"Alas, I cannot," the woman said with a mischievous smile. "How else would I keep you all wanting more?"

Círdan let out a soft sigh and turned to let the girl pass. She gracefully walked down the halls, unaware of the eyes following her every move, and entered her chambers. There were no draperies or curtains to block the sunlight, so the white sheets of her bed gleamed like glistening snow. A washstand and bureau were set in a corner, and a tall gilded mirror stood opposite, reflecting more sun around the room. On the back wall was a mural, a tree with every colour of autumn leaf imaginable and a few more beside it, and the woman stared at it for a long while before cleaning the mud from her body.

She pulled the linen dress over her head and tossed it into the small basin of water to soak, and dressed in trousers and a pale grey linen shirt she'd gotten from a Human merchant who left the day prior. She strapped a wide belt around her waist, which she'd gotten from the same man, and pulled on some well-worn leather boots, taking care to do up the lacing just right. The linen dress, soaked, scrubbed and wrung, was placed upon the window sill to dry, the vestiges of the woman's excursions still present on the hem. Before her hair had dried, the woman pleated some, but not all of it, into braids that fell loosely on her shoulders, akin to the few dwarves that passed through the Grey Havens, and she waltzed out of her chambers with a strange confidence that wasn't of Elves.

"I feared you would get another shirt," Círdan said the woman joined him for a midday meal.  
"Of course," the woman said, sitting down. "The men will not wear them. What is the harm in tailoring?."  
"Harm?"  
"Yes. I had a worn pair of boots that were of no use to me. Déor offered to take them off my hands in exchange for one of his old shirts, and I _was_ in dire need of a new shirt."  
"Dire, you say?" Círdan echoed, sounding unimpressed.  
"Very much so."  
"I regret repeating myself to you, my lady, but you are of noble birth. Is it not a disgrace to your ancestors to dress like Men and braid your hair like Dwarves?"  
"And I dislike repeating myself, as well, Nowë," the woman said impatiently. "It cannot be a disgrace to my ancestors if my ancestors are not alive to be disgraced. I have told you many times that I will not follow in their wake. As of my rebirth, I am to be whomever I wish.  
"I must admit that I have taken on many more qualities of Men and Dwarf than I have of the Eldar, but you are teaching me well, Nowë, teaching me to keep a balance between the grace and poise of the Eldar, and the arrogant confidence of others. But you must realise that here, at the Havens, I am exposed far more to Dwarf and Man than I am to Eldar.  
"And if I must, as you say, disgrace my ancestors by associating with Man and braiding my hair as Garvan taught me, to realise myself the way that I wish to fully, then I shall without any qualms. I would rather die a most painful death than have to live my life by someone else's.  
'Besides, how am I supposed to climb trees and outrun the hares whilst ornate with gowns and priceless jewels?"

Círdan sighed.

"The point is that you are not meant to do any of those things."  
"Oh, please, Nowë. That would be torture."  
"I fear that, to you, it would."  
"And please, for the last time—I am no lady."

Círdan shook his head, though there was a small smile on his lips that gave away his amusement. In the time that he'd known this woman, he was sure that she was quite different from most—if not all—elven nobility that he'd met. Living constrained to a throne room, or the walls of a kingdom would not suit her well. This woman was made, in some shape or form, to roam free, to take on qualities of those whom she met, and it was certainly not a trait that she had inherited from her ancestors. Círdan hadn't the faintest idea where she got it—from the Aratar perhaps—but it fascinated him, for it was that sole trait that allowed her to begin forging her own path, away from the life she did not and did not want to remember.

"Lindërúlin."

The woman looked up from her plate and at Círdan. A small frown etched itself upon her features.

"Lindërúlin?" the woman echoed. "I hope that you have not divulged my name to me, Nowë."  
"Fear not, my lady, I have not," Círdan reassured. "Do you recognise the tongue?"  
"There are two words in that name. One is Sindarin, the other a language that you've told me is quite extinct."  
"Yes, it is the Ñoldorin dialect of Quenya. The name which you use to refer to me—Nowë—is of the same tongue. Which is why I think it best to use it to form your name."  
"My name?"  
"As you know, the Ñoldor had very peculiar naming customs. First, there was the Essë, given by the father at birth. Then the Amilessë, given by the mother when the child was at least a few years of age. Third was the Cilmessë, a name chosen by one-self to reflect one's personal taste. And finally, the Epessë, given by another as a title of honour.  
"Now, while I am not family, I do feel responsible for you in some way. After all, it was I who found you in the Gulf and cared for you, and I who continues to pester as any father would. Pardon my boldness—though I doubt you would mind—but I have found myself wishing to give you a name, as your father would have done."  
"And you chose Lindërúlin?"  
" _The song of the lark_."

The woman contemplated Círdan's words for what seemed to him like an agonisingly long time, but after contemplation came a gentle smile. The woman had never known anyone that cared for her—or at least she had no memory of it. For a man that she had known for barely a year to offer a father-name for her, was somehow fulfilling. Finally, he'd accepted that she wasn't merely the descendant of Finwë and Írimë, but her own person, as the Valar wanted. Some part of her wanted to think it was of her own doing, insisting that she spend time amongst the Men and the Dwarven merchants of the Grey Havens, learning from them song and language and many other things that Círdan did not necessarily approve of. 

"Lindërúlin," the girl said quietly. "Does this mean that I should start calling you 'father,' now?"  
"No, of course not," Círdan laughed. "Nowë will do quite all right."


	5. Ancestors

> _An Elven-maid there was of old,_  
>  _A shining star by day:_  
>  _Her mantle white was hemmed with gold,_  
>  _Her shoes of silver-grey._
> 
> _A star was bound upon her brows,_  
>  _A light was on her hair_  
>  _As sun upon the golden boughs_  
>  _In Lórien the fair._
> 
> _Her hair was long, her limbs were white,_  
>  _And fair she was and free;_  
>  _And in the wind she went as light_  
>  _As leaf of linden-tree._
> 
> _Beside the falls of Nimrodel,_  
>  _By water clear and cool,_  
>  _Her voice as falling silver fell_  
>  _Into the shining pool._
> 
> _Where now she wanders none can tell,_  
>  _In sunlight or in shade;_  
>  _For lost of yore was Nimrodel_  
>  _And in the mountains strayed._

It was an early autumn morning. A frosty chill hung in the air, and the sweet surrendering scent of the morning dew filled the forest with a scent that did not belong in Middle-Earth. Autumn leaves from all the trees lay scattered on the forest floor, each of them turning brittle and brown, making a satisfying crunching noise underfoot, pushing their papery remains into the soft soil. The dark shadows of the voluminous trees and the surrounding bushes had become the forest's backbone, standing as passive protectors of a peaceful place. The autumn sun rose in a hurry as if trying to make up for setting too early the evening before, blooming into the pale sky with a warm, mellow glow, sending what was left of the moon packing until its next shift guarding the night. By mid-morning, the sky was a brilliant baby blue. As the morning developed, young birds' sound filled the air: chirping, tweeting and warbling incessantly.

The small creek had been hardened by the unforgivingness of an icy frost, the translucent water bound as a smooth solid. The wildlife was bold yet cautious of figuring out their new visitor, daring to get closer to have a look at the foreign creature disturbing their peace. As the day went on the forest came to life. The trees danced in the wind, the sound of running water in the stream had the same hypnotic quality as music luring animals in to have a drink, to taste the warm sweet sensation of fresh water. The drone of insects humming and buzzing filled the air, and little frogs croaked while searching for food, hoping to catch an easy snack.

> _A wind by night in Northern lands_  
>  _Arose, and loud it cried,_  
>  _And drove the ship from elven-strands_  
>  _Across the streaming tide._
> 
> _When dawn came dim the land was lost,_  
>  _The mountains sinking grey_  
>  _Beyond the heaving waves that tossed_  
>  _Their plumes of blinding spray._
> 
> _Amroth beheld the fading shore_  
>  _Now low beyond the swell,_  
>  _And cursed the faithless ship that bore_  
>  _Him far from Nimrodel._
> 
> _Of old he was an Elven-king,_  
>  _A lord of tree and glen,_  
>  _When golden were the boughs in spring_  
>  _In fair Lothlórien._

Líndërulin dashed through the woods, leaping over thin winding creaks and the slippery rocks. She dodged and zipped past rotting oak trees and under lowered and snapped branches. Everything blurred into a dizzying blend of earthly colours. The earth was wet and moist under her bare skin. She jumped into a muddy brook, swollen by the recent rains, soaking up her dress. The woods began to widen, and thin layers of fallen pine needles and sentinels disguised the perilous and rocky terrain. But never would she wear anything on her feet. She knew that there were insects, sticks and sharp rocks to cut her feet on, but Líndërulin needed to feel the earth between her toes. She had to touch the rough bark and break leaves with her hands to take in their scent. She needed to look up at the leaves, glowing as the light passed through them. In this manner, the harshness of the sun was muted, its rays softer. Líndërulin needed to breathe in the smell of fresh rainfall and the water seeping through her nightgown. She knew that Círdan would scold her again, but Líndërulin would always take the paths less travelled on purpose, leaving her thoughts to fly up into the canopy above, free, but protected by the boughs. And then, her emotions, her restlessness, would all wash away, and when she was ready, Líndërulin would run all the way back to the Havens, singing in the extinct Ñoldorin Quenya, the last of the sweet and mournful song she'd been performing for the trees all morning.

> _From helm to sea they saw him leap,_  
>  _As arrow from the string,_  
>  _And dive into the water deep,_  
>  _As mew upon the wing._
> 
> _The wind was in his flowing hair,_  
>  _The foam about him shone;_  
>  _Afar they saw him strong and fair_  
>  _Go riding like a swan._
> 
> _But from the West has come no word,_  
>  _And on the Hither Shore_  
>  _No tidings Elven-folk have heard_  
>  _Of Amroth evermore._

The run home was different than usual. Líndërulin came across a long line of elves wandering the forest, on their way to the Grey Havens themselves. The vast majority of them were clad in simple grey hoods, with golden hair poking from underneath, and quivers full of arrows on their backs. Líndërulin, hoping to get a better look at them, deftly climbed a nearby tree and spied the company. A few of them shared the dark hair that she herself donned, and another few wore nothing similar to what the vast majority was. At the very front of the company stood a tall and fair man, with hair as golden as the armour he donned. His keen grey eyes scanned the forest around him with great care, seemingly searching for the singing he had heard mere moments ago, and Líndërulin didn't fail to notice his hands, ready to unsheath a short sword attached to his belt. However, it was the elven woman upon a pure white horse that caught Líndërulin's eye. She was beautiful, and her hair was a marvel that Líndërulin had never seen before. It was golden like the hair of the man at the front, but richer and more radiant as if touched by the memory of starlight.

Enamoured by the woman's beauty, Líndërulin nearly fell out of the tree she was standing in. The movement caught the elven man's eye at the front, but after a few seconds, he resumed his usual position. Líndërulin took the opportunity to jump down from the tree and dash towards the Havens—whoever they were, they seemed like important guests, and so Líndërulin had to make herself look at least presentable.

Líndërulin tracked mud into the Havens, much to Círdan's dismay, and she rushed over to her chambers to get cleaned up. The scent of lavender filled the air, a small stick of incense having been left to burn while she was away, and it had seeped into her clothes enough that a lingering floral scent clung to her as she dressed. She put on her cleanest shirt and trousers, laced up her most excellent pair of leather boots, and braided her hair as Garvan had taught her, adorning the braids with beads of silver and brass.

When Círdan went to find her, Líndërulin was already on her way to the Havens' entrance, walking far more calmly than she usually would. Círdan said nothing, but a small smile played at his mouth—despite her appearance, Líndërulin was quite capable of passing as the lady that she was. She watched Círdan politely incline his head to the man at the front, and did the same as Círdan helped the tall elven woman off her horse. The man didn't incline his head. He bowed nearly completely, which made Líndërulin somewhat embarrassed.

"You need not bow to me. I am hardly worthy of such a gesture," Líndërulin said politely.  
"I insist. Any maiden that is even half as fair is worthy of the gesture," the elven man replied.

Líndërulin let out a breathy laugh and, feeling self-conscious about the man's comment, she turned her head to the side to avoid his gaze. However, a certain confidence arose within her and, without thinking, she spoke.

"Do not think that you are the first to say those things," Líndërulin added. "Flattery will get you nowhere."

A small smile spread across the stranger's lips, entertained and intrigued by the peculiarity of the elven maiden that stood in front of him, and before he could say anything else, Círdan approached with the tall elven woman at his side. She was far more beautiful up close, and Líndërulin bowed on instinct, but the same person quickly stopped her. The woman looked into her eyes and, without speaking at all, introduced herself as Lady Galadriel. While the name was familiar, she did not know the woman before her, and so Líndërulin assumed that she had read about Galadriel in one of the tomes found in the library.

A few pleasantries were exchanged between Círdan and Galadriel before another guest arrived at the Havens. This time, the most imposing character was an elf with whom Líndërulin shared her dark hair. His eyes were keen, much like Círdan's were, and he introduced himself as Lord Elrond, a name that Líndërulin did not recognise at all. With a few more pleasantries exchanged with the new guest, Círdan lead Galadriel, Elrond and Líndërulin towards the meeting courtyard they only used for song and dance. Chairs and a long oaken table had been placed in the centre for the occasion, and Líndërulin sat at the furthest end, hoping to examine the faces of the Lord and Lady before her.

However, the conversation soon veered from wine and lunch towards the mystery that was Líndërulin, and it made her quite uncomfortable. They spoke of her, detailing her first encounter with Círdan, and moved on rather quickly to the state of her memories, as if she wasn't in the room with them.

"Pardon me, but I am here," Líndërulin interrupted. "I would prefer it if you did not speak of me as if I were not."  
"You would prefer recounting everything?" Lord Elrond asked. "But you cannot remember—"  
"I cannot remember who I am, yes, but that does not mean that I am a simpleton."

A strange tension filled the room, and the look in Elrond's eyes became keener.

"I awoke in the waters of the Gulf, drowning," Líndërulin said plainly. "Nowë—yes, Nowë—is the one who pulled me from its depths. I was unscathed, save for the chill of the water, and I was aware of my surroundings when I woke up, although, I had no idea what the surroundings were."  
"You did not know the Havens?" Elrond asked.  
"No, I did not. Nor that Beleriand was no more, that the Elven Kingdom of Gondolin was no longer—I did not, and still do not know who it is that I am."  
"But surely—"  
"Nowë knows, yes," Líndërulin answered. "But I do not wish for him to tell me.."  
"Why?" Elrond said, genuinely confused.  
"Because the Aratar have given you a second life," Galadriel stated plainly.

Líndërulin nodded once. 

"But your ancestors," Elrond continued. "It is an injustice that you should cast them aside."  
"I cannot cast aside that which I never had, Lord Elrond."  
"Once—"  
"Once, long ago. Nearly six thousand years have passed since the Fall of Gondolin, of my people, and while they will forever be a part of me, I have no desire to besmirch the state in which the Aratar have returned me to Arda.  
"Maybe I return without memory because I have none, too young to have lived before death, or maybe I return without memory because, in my previous life, I was less than desirable.  
"Whatever the reason, Lord Elrond, I have no desire to follow in the footsteps of dead men—I have complete control over who am I and who I am to become, and as I have said to Nowë dozens of times, I would rather die a most painful death than let go of the things that distinguish me from my ancestors."

Lord Elrond sighed, resigning himself to Líndërulin's logic.

"You say that you have no desire to follow in the steps of dead men," Galadriel said. "If I said to you that you have living relatives, what would you do?"  
"Gondolin fell age ago, Lady Galadriel. There were no survivors that haven't yet sailed off to the Undying Lands," Líndërulin said. "And if there is, by some miracle, someone out there that I am related to—I do not wish to know it."  
"I do not understand," Elrond said. "You were born to the noble House of—"  
"Enough!"

Líndërulin stood abruptly, her chair falling backwards with a loud crash, and slammed her hands upon the table. Anger bubbled inside her, like the pits of Mount Doom spilling over its sides.

"I am not meant to be here," she said in a low voice. "I am dead, like these ancestors you want me to acknowledge so much. My allegiance to them ended when I died six thousand years ago."  
"You were reimbodied!" Elrond exclaimed, coming to a stand. "Why do you not stand with them?"  
"If I had died with honour, if I had died worthy of this reimbodiment—do you really think the Aratar would let me return to Arda devoid of memories of these people? No.  
"And seeing as I do not remember them, Lord Elrond, I do not think that I was worthy of knowing them in the first place. If I was to be so proud of these people, of myself, would I not have returned with them in my memories? I am not Glorfindel, nor will I ever come as close to being as noble as he!"  
"So you do know of the Fall of Gondolin?"  
"Only what I have read," Líndërulin said with a sigh. "I do not remember its people—my people. I have returned unattached, unburdened by this significant loss. And because of this, I do not wish to be associated to those I could not help, those who would have expected so much of me.  
"While I am six thousand years of age, I feel as if I am rediscovering everything through the eyes of a child. Would you, Lord Elrond, place such expectations upon your children?"

He was silent for a moment but resigned, shook his head and sat back down.

"I am learning about myself every day, Lord Elrond. So far, I have learned that I am not interested in politics, nor am I interested in acting like the nobility you all claim that I am. I was not even interested in others of my kin, in the Eldar, until I encountered them here, months after I woke. You see, what I am interested in is all that I encounter.  
"I am interested in the Men that come here for trade, their speech, their songs and their ridiculous dances. I am interested in braiding my hair with elderly Dwarves, learning their forging techniques. I am interested in Nowë's storytelling, in the books and the poems that he and I read.  
"Being attached to the people that I do not remember—it would do me a disservice. I am not made for politics, for nobility, or anything of the sort—acting as if I were one of them would be an even greater insult to their memory. I would much rather spend my days here at the Havens or out on journeys throughout Arda than sit in front of a court that cares for me only because I am their noble.  
"So, please, while I do not need your approval, Lord Elrond, Lady Galadriel, I wish that you both allow me to live my life the only way that I know how."

Líndërulin's voice was calm again, as warm as an early spring, and Elrond, Galadriel and Círdan had been listening carefully to every one of her words. The elven maiden might have claimed to be untalented in the realm of politics, but she held her audience captive with her words, leaving them to contemplate what she'd spoken truly. It was a long while before any of them spoke, and they did, it was Galadriel, and she stood, looking rather content.

"Long has it been that I have encountered an Eldar with such spirit," she said softly. "Might I suggest—and I will not pardon myself for being bold—that you return with me to Lothlórien? Bold as you may be, there is still much to learn, and Círdan tells me that you've exhausted his reading material."  
"I have, yes, months ago," Líndërulin said sheepishly. She gazed at Círdan, a little saddened. "Would you think terribly of me?"  
"I could never do such a thing, Líndërulin," Círdan said. "The blood of the Ñoldor runs pure through your veins, my lady—it would be foolish to deny it the knowledge that it seeks."

The corners of Líndërulin's mouth curved upwards into a smile, like that of a child permitted to run free in a market full of sweet things. Calmly, she retrieved the chair she'd knocked down and turned to face Lady Galadriel again, this time, with a keen look in her eye.

"Then, I shall not be foolish."


	6. The Marchwarden

On most evenings, Lindërúlin would use the last light of day to read, finishing up her tomes far past midnight and by candlelight. Today, music filled the night air without effort, like the waves filling holes in the pebbled beach of the Gulf. The sound rushed in and around every person in the room. It was the Men who sang tonight, feeling especially pleased about the large amounts of elves walking around the Havens for once. Some reacted to the beat, others continued in chatter, but others, like Lindërúlin, found themselves swept up by the current. The lively tempo lifted her, elevated her spirit, and moved her to dance amongst the men that dared to dance next to something so flawless, and they danced, barefoot on the grass, late into the night, until the torches went out and all the wine and ale had been drunk.

In the crowd, Elves and Men alike were mesmerised by the girl who danced so effortlessly and so confidently, and they watched her dance flawlessly at the beginning of the celebration, and clumsily by the time the torches had died. Lindërúlin was filled with food and ale, and her musical laugh was heard amongst the brute voices of the men surrounding her. Círdan sat a little ways away with Elrond and Galadriel, but they were enjoying themselves far more than they let on, thoroughly enamoured with Lindërúlin's spirit. The same could be said for the kind stranger Lindërúlin had met a few days prior. He watched her dance all night, scarcely paying attention to his food and drink, charmed by every one of her movements, even as the men belted songs about taverns and ale and she sang along proudly, standing up on chairs.

And as the night ended, and the jigs and tavern songs came to an end, the men turned themselves around and played gentle, heartfelt songs to please the elven guests, and a far greater number than before began paying attention. When the first melody had ended, Lindërúlin strode to the centre of the room, and many of the men cheered and clapped, for they knew that it would be one of the rare occasions this elven maiden would properly sing for them. Her voice rolled over the guests in sorrowful waves. Swells of power rose up in her throat, and many could scarcely tell that words were coming from her, for Lindërúlin's voice was music, and grace, and the feeling of running free through the forests. 

> _In unknown days my fathers' sires_  
>  _came, and from son to son took root_  
>  _among the orchards and the river-meads_  
>  _and the long grasses of the fragrant plain:_  
>  _many a summer saw they kindle yellow fires_  
>  _of iris in the bowing reeds,_  
>  _and many a sea of blossom turn to golden fruit_  
>  _in walléd gardens of the great champain._
> 
> _There daffodils among the ordered trees_  
>  _did nod in spring, and men laughed deep and long_  
>  _singing as they laboured happy days_  
>  _and lighting even with a drinking-song._  
>  _There sleep came easy for the drone of bees_  
>  _thronging about cottage gardens heaped with flowers;_  
>  _in love of sunlit goodliness of days_  
>  _there richly flowed their lives in settled hours -_  
>  _but that was long ago,_  
>  _and now no more they sing, nor reap, nor sow_  
>  _and I perforce in many a town about this isle_  
>  _unsettled wanderer have dwelt awhile._

Lindërúlin's hand went to her heart, and her head rose as she sang the final notes of the song, and the courtyard filled with cheers and claps once again until they died down and the night had finally come to an end. The elves and men scattered after chattering amongst themselves a short while and Lindërúlin gracefully bowed to Elrond and Galadriel as they retired as well. Círdan bid her good night as she helped the men pack up their instruments, and she smiled at them, embarrassed when they complimented her voice before retiring. 

Lindërúlin picked up the remnants of the night, putting chairs and tables back into their rightful places before walking over to the other side of the courtyard. The night sky stood an inky canopy of darkness freckled only by the fewest of stars, where just hours ago it had been a large expanse of bright blue. The occasional hoot of a hidden owl was the only sound to permeate the silence until a gentle pair of footsteps approached, and the owl let out a screech of protest and took flight.

"I tell you to avoid flattery, and you immediately graduate to stalking," Lindërúlin said playfully. "And I thought I was peculiar."

Lindërúlin heard a small breath of laughter beside her, and she turned to look at the man. His skin almost glowed in the moonlight. 

"My true intentions have been revealed," he said sarcastically. His eyes were focused on Lindërúlin, but not staring, merely admiring. "Well, I am guilty of the peculiarity of not asking for your name."  
"I am Lindërúlin."  
"Lindërúlin... how fitting. Your song tonight was truly a wonder of this world," the stranger said, inclining his head. "I am Haldir."  
"Haldir," Lindërúlin said contemplatively. She smiled lightly and turned to walk away. "I shall remember that."  
"Lady Galadriel has said that you will be travelling with us to Lothlórien. Is this true?"

Lindërúlin stopped in her tracks and turned to Haldir.

"It is."  
"I am pleased," Haldir said, looking relieved. "How long will you stay?"  
"I do not know," Lindërúlin said, turning back. "For now... indefinitely."

Lindërúlin did not turn back to look at the expression on Haldir's face, no matter how curious she was. Instead, she left him and gracefully walked to her chambers under the pale light of the moon. She undressed, then slipped on her nightclothes, and pulled out a trunk from underneath her bed. Inside Lindërúlin placed the few articles of clothing she actually wore, alongside the few trinkets she'd accumulated during her times in the Grey Havens. Before closing her wardrobe, however, Lindërúlin contemplated the luxurious dresses that Círdan had gotten for her. They looked far more beautiful under the glow of the moonlight, and Lindërúlin took one out to place it in front of herself and spin around the room. With a sigh, she folded it up nicely and placed it in her trunk alongside two others, hoping that Lothlórien would give her an occasion to wear them and think fondly of Círdan. 

Sleep found Lindërúlin quickly when her head touched the pillow, as the food and ale inside her body lulled it into dreams about dances and forests of golden wonder. The sun woke her just as quickly, and as the shafts of light weaved their way through the sheer fabric of her window dressings, they caressed the elven maiden's face with warmth until she stirred awake. Her blue eyes found the blue skies outside, and her lips smiled upon hearing the pleasant sound of birds outside her window. Lindërúlin took her time getting ready after she'd risen from her bed, absorbing every last detail and feeling she could squeeze out of her the first and only bedroom she'd ever had. And rather than slipping on trousers and a shirt that was two sizes too large, Lindërúlin slid into a richly coloured blue dress that billowed behind her as she walked. But although she'd honoured Círdan by donning one of the gowns he'd been insisting she wore, Lindërúlin's hair remained braided like that of dwarves, with silver and brass beads shining in the autumn sun.

"Why is it that it is on our last day together that you wear the gowns that I have provided for you?" Círdan said, entering Lindërúlin's chambers.   
"I thought it wise that you see me wear one at least once before I depart, Nowë," Lindërúlin said with a small smile. "They are rather beautiful."  
"And yet, you never wore them."  
"I am bringing them to Lothlórien. It is my hope that I will wear them more often as to think fondly of you while I am away."  
"It is a kind gesture, my Lady," Círdan said. "However, you will not have to 'constrain' yourself to a dress to remember me. I have taken the liberty of having something else made for you. A token from... a father."

Lindërúlin turned from her mirror and towards Círdan, a fond smile on her face. In his hands, Círdan held a small and ornate wooden box, and as Lindërúlin approached, he opened it to reveal a simple but masterfully crafted pendant necklace. It was of silver unlike any silver Lindërúlin had ever seen, and the blue jewel set within the pendant seemed to swirl and shine like the ocean itself. 

"Nowë I cannot—"  
"You must. It is rightfully yours."

An inquisitive frown fell upon Lindërúlin's brow, and as Círdan clasped the necklace around her neck, she listened to him speak.

"I know that you hold no love, nor even any interest in your ancestors, but this pendant was made by the finest craftsmen known to the Eldar; by the Ñoldorin smiths of Gondolin," he said. "It was made for your grandmother, then passed onto your mother. And while it is not mine to give, it is rightfully yours."

Lindërúlin looked down at the glittering pendant that lay perfectly on her chest and smiled.

"It is true, Nowë, that I do not care for them or the fallen city to which I owe my allegiance. However, this is not a gift from them. It is, as you say, a token from a father. And it is a gift that I will cherish for as long as I live."

Círdan and Lindërúlin shared a quiet moment together, wishing each other well and appreciating their last moments together for a long while until a Lothlórien elf came to retrieve Lindërúlin and her things as they were set to depart.

As Lindërúlin walked down the halls, she stopped to say her goodbyes to many of the men and dwarves that were roaming the Grey Havens. They shared embraces, and some gave Lindërúlin little trinkets to be remembered by before they watched her walk away for what seemed like the last time. Even the walls and the sea seemed to be saying their goodbyes. The wind picked up and the chimes sung as Lindërúlin walked passed, and she smiled at the tapestries that fluttered in the breeze and the crashing waves behind her.

The golden-clad company that Haldir led was waiting for Lindërúlin as she arrived at the entrance to the Havens, and after saying goodbye to Círdan one last time, Lindërúlin swung on a travelling cloak and let Haldir help her mount a horse. As they departed, Lindërúlin looked back at Círdan and the slowly retreating Grey Havens with a wistful smile.

"You will not be gone forever."

Lindërúlin turned towards the voice. Lady Galadriel had slowed down to ride beside her.

"I know," Lindërúlin said with a sigh. "But it is the only place I've ever known. It almost feels like I am leaving my entire childhood behind."  
"Do not worry, child," Galadriel said. "There will be much time for you to visit Círdan and Mithlond again."  
"I do not worry for myself, my Lady. I worry for Nowë and the others of the Havens," Lindërúlin said with a small smile. "Nowë always said that I was the most interesting thing that happened in Mithlond. I hope they will not bore without me."

Galadriel smiled and kept watch on the girl out of the corner of her eye as they went on. She saw Lindërúlin's eyes devour every inch of the woods that they could, even if she'd spent months running around in them, singing songs to the gods that resided in them. Watched as she listened to the birds, the wind in the leaves, the hares trying to outrun the horses, and even to the insects that crawled in the earth. Watched as Lindërúlin breathed in the loamy autumn air as if it were the only thing her lungs could tolerate, and her fingers brushed the trees as she passed them. And Galadriel watched as the beauty of the last of the Ñoldorin slowly captured her marchwarden's heart.


End file.
